Beyond These Walls
by hollister9
Summary: She's working for the Ministry to improve Wizarding Prisons. He's in Azkaban. Four meetings. Three and a half turns. Two decades between them. One questionnaire.
1. November 1971

_AN: I'm back! And a Happy new year to you all! The idea for this novel has been swirling round in my head for about three years and, honestly, it has kept me awake some nights. It's going to be a big one guys, an epic story. For those of you reading The Devil is the Camera, please do not worry- the next instalment is coming soon. Until then, get your teeth into this..._

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><p><strong>November 1971<strong>

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><p>His cell is four by six and he's here forever. He's twenty one and forever seems like it should belong in a fairy tale romance, not stamped across his life sentence. He wasn't even given a fucking trial, he wasn't supposed to be here so young, and he wasn't the man to wait for death.<p>

_Tick, tick, tick…_

He runs his hands through his shaggy long hair and growls at the walls. He seems to be so many 'was-not's', that Sirius Black, the man himself, is lost in the foggy air behind these walls. Now he only knows what he doesn't have, and that he doesn't want to cry. Peter has done this to him, the fucking rat, and it hurts because he would've died for him. He would have died for any of them, in the worst of ways, and it needn't have been noble or valiant; he would have done it for friendship, for the good times, and now he only dwells on these things in past tense.

His back hits the cold floor and he laughs mirthlessly. James and Lily are not really gone, and it is easy to convince his wayward self of it when he is trapped behind these walls. There is no one to tell him otherwise. He sees no sprawled white bodies, no tangled limbs, and no coffins of rich mahogany. He sees no Harry, alone in his cot and crying for a cuddle. He heaves himself up on all fours and crawls to the left, so his fallen friends can lie down with him in his cell. He isn't sure how long they stay, but he knows they're there with him for a little while. He wants to relive the Hogwarts years. He wants to relive youth, and if he closes his eyes and holds his heart he can taste it on his tongue. Girls, flirting and meaningless sex, the promise not to kiss and tell, playing Quidditch in the sun, Marauder nights consisting of forbidden forest adventures and midnight swims in the lake, shaking his hair out like a dog and the freezing run back to their dorms laughing as they went…

Now he can't see the sun. There is no window in his cell. He only smells the salty air of the sea, and feels the crash of the waves under his fingertips that rest on the rocky walls. He can't see anything that matters; nothing that will make his heart beat faster or that will make him smile with warmth, because James and Lily are gone. The Marauders are gone. His youth is no more. Now he is a man, and he has his father's stubbly goatee and beard to keep reminding him, and the fate of his life decided. Bowing his head in defeat he eventually sleeps, and when he wakes up his cheeks are damp.

He senses its dark and the dementors scrape his food and water under the iron bars and float away again, but not far - never far. The food is on a tray, though strictly speaking it is not food, but instead slimy gloop that slops over the bowl and smells of salt and sweat. The water is in a goblet, frozen to ice. The dementors leave chilling cold in their wake, on everything they touch and surround; they feed on the live prisoners until their bodies rot and scab over like their own skin. Sirius lifts his spoon to his mouth and shivers. The gloop is lumpy on his tongue and breath escapes his lips and dies in the November air, and his spoon clatters onto the floor. He's not sure if he'll ever be warm again, and it is hard to swallow.

"Black?"

A deep man's voice, probably Fudge. He picks his spoon up again and stabs bitterly into a mushroom. It's wet, just like his eyes. He glares up at the man who… is not Fudge, but instead is a tall, dark skinned man wearing blue and purple ministry robes.

"I am Kingsley Shacklebolt," the man says, and his voice is calm and slow. "I work for the Ministry in the department of magical law enforcement. My colleague and I have been sent, under the orders of Cornelius Fudge, to undergo inspections on Azkaban prison every three years. It is primarily to review prisoner living conditions and any symptoms of mental health issues. Would you like to answer our questionnaire?"

Sirius slaps his knee and barks with laughter, and he really feels it from his bones; he knows then that he is going mad, and the man is watching him like he expected this behaviour. He sobers enough to slam the goblet on the floor, cracking the frozen water, and glares up at him. "Go fuck yourself."

He resumes eating his gloop in silence.

The man seems to expect this answer too, because he nods and stays behind the bars and waits in the shadows for something. Sirius finishes the bowl or as much as he can stomach before the something arrives, then he falls to his back and stares at the ceiling. The man is still there waiting and anger swells in his chest, and he sits up again, jaw clenching, eyes rabid, and growls.

"Kill me or leave, prick."

The man simply looks at him silently, then abruptly turns to his left. "Ah, Miss Granger."

"I have the questionnaires here, Mr Shacklebolt."

The voice is well-spoken and knowledgeable but equally soft, and a girl steps into the shadows. Her face is lost in the darkness, but he sees her long wavy brown hair. A stack of parchment is passed across to the man with delicate hands, and the man thanks her and leaves. Sirius still can't see whoever she is, but her hair makes him think of Honeydukes chocolate and autumn leaves. _'A bit like Lily's'_, he muses, and then wishes he hadn't.

"Hello, I'm here from the ministry to ask you a few questions…"

He can't look at her, so he bows his head to the crumbly ground and counts to one hundred in his head. By the time he finishes she is still there, waiting like the man did, standing for no purpose, haunting his head and lurking in the shadows. "I'm afraid, by the ministry, you are under obligation to answer-"

"I'M UNDER OBLIGATION TO STAY HERE UNTIL I DIE!" he roars, and he is up and on his feet, shaking the iron bars she stands behind, and hate for the ministry melts from his veins and his skin. "YOU HEARTLESS BITCH, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I OWE NOTHING TO YOU, _NOTHING_-!"

The dark night flickers behind the barred windows and he can see her now. The words fall away in his mouth. She looks to be a few years older than twenty, with pretty cocoa eyes he would have - a few weeks ago, charmed to come to dinner with him, and they're glistening wet. Her lips tremble and she bites on the bottom one to stop, because evidently he has frightened her. She's all natural youth and cheekbones and he is surprised that she works for the ministry. He's never met anyone from that shithole whose hair curls at the ends beautifully, like lily petals in spring. An overwhelming sense of regret washes over him, chokes him even, and he immediately wishes he hadn't looked. He wishes she hadn't come here on this night.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, "it won't take long."

There is something different about her that eases him - a gentleness perhaps, and for a moment he believes her; then he realises he shouldn't give a shit either way. His hands slip from the bars and he drops to his knees and crawls to the corner where he lays… silent, cold and half dead.

She begins to read shakily from the parchment. "How long is your total prison sentence?"

He says nothing, and she already knows - or did she not hear him yell that he was set to die behind these walls? He hears the scratching of the quill, because of course she is recording everything he is fucking saying. Not even his words are his own anymore. He closes his eyes and she speaks again, a soft pain punctuating each syllable.

"How much of your … your sentence have you completed?"

His hair falls in front of his face as he turns to look at her. Her cocoa eyes shine through the darkness like wet candle wax and he swallows hard as he meets them. "Eleven days," he murmurs, and his heart hurts to say it.

He notions to the lines on the floor, etched in the dusty sand with his fingers. "Each line signifies one day. I'm going to run out of space before my first year."

He looks at her.

He wants to know if she's enjoying this, he wants to know if she cares, or if anyone cares. He wants to feel something other than pain. She stares at him and nibbles her lips like she's sorry, like she might see some good in him woven into his organs but she can't salvage it. His chest throbs again, he tears his eyes away from her as a tear trickles down his cheek.

_Eleven days. _

Dementors are behind her, floating in one rattling group as they suck from the cells in his row, eating the prisoner's happy thoughts, invading the place that none should be able to reach. The girl doesn't use a patronus to keep the dementors away, they are simply not going near her, and he knows the ministry has made some kind of deal with them so she and Shacklebolt can do their research in peace; so she can ask questions that hurt him, so he can watch as she twiddles the quill and scratches words down. He hears faint yells from behind her, screaming and the sick echoing of a head banging against iron bars. The rattling of the hooded creatures gets louder and the prisoner cries out, sharp but broken; Sirius closes his eyes again, silently hoping they'll be gone soon. He wants it to be quick for them, no matter who they tortured or who they killed. He's counted four dead in the last week. He's quickly learnt that screams are the underscore of Azkaban and, eventually, they all build into a crescendo. They are all silenced in the end and he has no choice but to wait for it.

She tucks her hair behind her ear with shaky fingers, and he senses she wants it to be quick for them too, but he can't tell because there's another question. "Urm…" she's frowning, and she's beautiful. She speaks, "How many meals do you receive a day?"

He says nothing and she moves on, and he's not sure if she's meant to.

"For hygiene and cleanliness, how often are you able to wash yourself?"

He says nothing again.

"Are you suffering from any mental illnesses such as anxiety, claustrophobia, depression, psychosis, parasomnia sleep disorders, post-traumatic embitterement, or schizophrenia as a result of your imprisonment?"

"When was the last time you exited your cell?"

"Are there any additional items you would like to have in your cell?"

"Have you received any contact in the form of letters from family or friends whilst you have been in prison?"

They catch eyes again, and he almost thinks she's doing this on purpose. She bows her head slightly, and it's all he needs to know. Maybe she's apologising. Why should a ministry bitch care anyway? She's not the one confined within bars, and yet she's still as trapped as he is in their bullshit laws thick with pureblood prejudice. She's too weak to be asking questions she can't imagine the answers to, she's too weak for Azkaban, and maybe he is too but he doesn't have a choice to be here, unlike her. He feels sorry for her, and he finds the irony amusing. When it's her turn, Bellatrix will rip her apart. Rodolphus will make her feel dirty. This time he doesn't laugh. He doesn't even manage a smile.

"Thank you for your time. I am Hermione Granger, and the ministry of magic and I will continue to work to make Azkaban a more endurable prison for you."

She doesn't believe what she says, and he knows it. Or if she does, since being in close proximity to a mad mass murderer she has lost all the conviction in her voice; when it once sounded knowledgeable conversing with the Kingsley prick, it now sounds sad and sorrowful. "Until next time…" she says, and she touches the bars gently, "stay safe."

He silently watches her turn away. Part of him wants to stand up, but her body is swallowed up in the blackness and she is already gone. He is alone again with years ahead of him, and he slumps onto his back, whispering 'Hermione Granger' over and over, until he falls asleep to the taste of chocolate on his tongue, and his heart awakens to a steady beat once more.

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><p><em>AN: I have missed you guys tremendously and I hope you enjoyed... on to the next chapter we go!<em>


	2. Evaluation One

**Evaluation One**

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><p>It is now 2002. She stands in the minister of magic's office, not quite sure what to do, so she sits nervously in the chair opposite his desk, nibbling on her bottom lip. The notes she scribbled down are in his hands, slightly crumpled from the journey, and the grandfather clock on the wall ticks as he reads. He, the minister of magic, is trusted friend Kingsley Shacklebolt and he still wears the same purple robes he wore when she saw him moments ago, but for him, some thirty years previously.<p>

"He hardly spoke to me Kingsley," she says, and her voice is quiet, "though he did shout in my face that he was going to die there, and called me a heartless bitch. I didn't write that down."

"Hmm," he says, "well, imprisoned without a trial by the ministry that he thinks you work for, I think that is expected Hermione. He was only in Azkaban for eleven days then; the anger was fresh; he was still very much in denial about James and Lily's deaths. The fact he spoke to you at all, I think, we can see as an achievement."

She wants to say that the Sirius she knew, the thirty something achingly handsome man that drank whisky in leather armchairs in the library of his old family home never lost the denial he harboured in Azkaban. He looked upon his godson Harry and saw James, fell through the veil and died protecting him. It was an act of reckless love for the son of his best friend he couldn't forget. It was six years ago now. They share a look, and she knows he is thinking the same.

"He was devastated, broken…" she whispers, "Well you saw him, you were there, you might remember."

"It was a long time ago but I do," Kingsley says gravely, "it is difficult to forget. What happened to Sirius is why this job is so important. His experience will provide the evidence we need to change how wizarding prisons are run." He leans forward in his seat, belief in her in his eyes, confidence in his voice. "Next time will be more productive Hermione. Three years will have passed. He'll speak to you; he'll give us important research to change Azkaban for the better."

Kingsley has assured her this for weeks. He tells her at every meeting that Sirius is the key to unlock a regeneration of their world. The war is over, Voldemort is dead and now they are killing old pureblood prejudice laws - whilst in the process - trying to clean up the wizarding world's most notorious prison. So what does Hermione have to do?: four visits to Sirius Black and the other prisoners every three years, asking them questions from the same questionnaire, with an evaluation with Kingsley in the present after each one. The ministry wants evidence to eliminate dementors as the prison guards; that, Kingsley says, is the most prevalent objective for undertaking the project. The morning Kingsley offered her the job, he spoke in length of the time travel terms she would have to abide by. _'You've had experience with time travel Hermione, you understand that you are not transcending back through time to be personal'_, he had said, and that was mostly the problem. Pretending like she didn't know Sirius was harder than she thought, and harder was seeing him glare at her with hate smoking from his eyes and making it seem like it didn't hurt.

She initially rejected the job for this reason, and Harry convinced her to see otherwise; he spoke of change too, but she knows he saw it, most of all, as an opportunity to provide his godfather some comfort in the torturous place he spent twelve years in. How can she, of all people, provide comfort to Sirius Black? She thinks of the maddening way he used to look at her when he was alive, and the maddening way he looked at her in his cell. Both times carries the same symmetry: he looked at her like he was on the brink of breaking, like his body was about to cave from the inside. She thinks of his maroon shirts, waistcoats and pocket watches and then the Azkaban stripes that hung from his body. They were the same man, but different. She purses her lips and holds in the sigh, because of course, she is supposed to understand that she is not transcending back through time to be personal. And yet she is struggling to find a way to provide comfort _without _being personal.

"Just be yourself Hermione," Kingsley speaks up, and she's back in his office, watching him clear up his desk by hand. "You'll find the research we need."

"I cannot be myself for Sirius."

Kingsley frowns and pauses packing his briefcase, and she flushes. "Sirius and I, when he was alive, we didn't get on so well…"

"You should know that he held a great deal of respect for you Hermione, and that is all you must know. Two and half turns."

She senses this is a dismissal and stands, thanking him in her leave. Evaluation one with the minister is over. She wants to exit his room as soon as she can but her legs feel like led. She isn't sure if she's ready for war time Azkaban again, but somehow she knows it doesn't matter if she's ready; she is going whether her heart wants to or not, because it is the right thing to do. She has always been vulnerable to succumb to the right thing, but she cannot help the wrong snatching her up too. She pulls her hair from her messy bun, and it falls in curls to her breasts, then she changes into Mrs Weasley's old robes from the seventies, the very ones that Ginny stole from her mother's wardrobe once she heard that Hermione was revisiting history and Sirius Black. Sirius Black who is no longer here in her lifetime. She decides there is something wrong about that.

She goes anyway, thinking all the while; _twenty minutes ago he was twenty one. In a few minutes he'll be twenty four. Sirius didn't even like me when I knew him…_

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><p><em>AN: This first evaluation chapter is quite short, but they will get progressively longer as the story unfolds. I'm nervous to hear what you guys think, I know nothing like this has ever been written about before. What would you like to see in the future chapters? Talk to me, I'm nice :)<em>


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